


be still, my foolish heart

by infinitefire



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Dancing, F/M, It just sorta happened, Letters, Love Confessions, Promises, Proposals, Smut, Tenderness, The Banquet Scene, also first proper smut i've written, and i took it, but i saw an opportunity for a trope, i did not mean to write smut, i know in the show he only proposes 3 times, i'm still not over that one line in a question of price, no beta we die like men, so sorry if it's awkward, some very minor angst at the beginning kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitefire/pseuds/infinitefire
Summary: Five times Eist proposes and Calanthe says no, plus one time he doesn't propose and she says yes.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 8
Kudos: 55





	be still, my foolish heart

**Author's Note:**

> me writing this fic: ok so this is the part where they're actually gonna have a conversa—  
> calanthe and eist: Why Don't We Just Fuck?  
> me: I NEED YOU TWO TO HAVE A FUNCTIONAL RELATIONSHIP
> 
> some dialogue taken directly from a question of price. title from "almost (sweet music)" by hozier.

— **1** —

Eist first proposes to Calanthe not long after Roegner’s death. 

He’s in Cintra on a diplomatic visit that was scheduled before Roegner fell ill; he would have been discussing business with the late king, but all Roegner’s duties have fallen to Queen Calanthe, which is how Eist finds himself meeting the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

They get along instantly, spend more time together over the next few days than absolutely necessary, and when it is time for Eist to make his journey back to Skellige, he is reluctant to set sail, reluctant to say goodbye.

“It has been an honor and a pleasure to spend these past few days in your company, your Majesty.”

“It has been an honor and pleasure for me as well, Eist Tuirseach.”

He relishes the sound of his full name on her lips. “Forgive me, my queen,” he says, unwilling to part from her, “I have known you but a few days, yet I feel inclined to ask … will you marry me?”

“No.”

Eist tilts his head.

“No, I don’t accept. It hasn’t been two weeks since I lost my husband. My first impression was that you are a noble knight of great honor and that you make for fine company. But you don’t even have the common decency to let me grieve, which makes me think I ought to reconsider.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” He bows his head. “My sincerest apologies. But if I may ask–”

“This conversation is over, Tuirseach.”

“If I should return in a year’s time,” he continues, despite the queen’s warning, “and, provided you have not since taken another husband, ask again, would you consider it?”

“You men must learn to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“If I am to understand that grief over your husband’s death is not the only reason for your refusal,” says Eist carefully, “and there are other elements at play which you do not wish to share with me, then I shall never speak of a marriage between us again. But if you are only rejecting me for my poor timing, all I ask is that you keep an open mind.” He pauses before adding, “And an open heart.”

Calanthe gives him a slight smile, albeit a pained one. “If you return in one year, and ask again, and my answer is still no, then you will not pursue me further?”

“You have my word.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

She nods, satisfied. “Until then, Eist Tuirseach of Skellige. Safe voyages.”

“Until then, Your Majesty.”

  
  
  
  
  


— **2** —

The next time Eist comes to Cintra is, as promised, a year later, on a diplomatic visit with King Bran. They arrive early due to favorable winds and are given ample time to settle into their guest chambers before officially meeting with the queen, so Eist is surprised when a sharp knocking at his door mere minutes after their arrival gives way to the Lioness of Cintra herself. She does not bother with pleasantries such as waiting for a response before entering the room, or saying hello, merely strides up to him and before he has time to say a word, her lips are pressed hard against his, her tongue is in his mouth, she’s biting his lips and kissing him in ways that have him gasping for breath and nearly losing his balance. 

“I hope this is your way of telling me it’s appropriate to ask again now,” he says when she finally gives him space to breathe, barely resisting the urge to reach up and touch his lips. “Marry me.”

Almost as quickly and just as passionately as before, Calanthe surges forward and kisses him. It’s intense and wonderful and over too soon for both of them when she tilts her head back just enough to break away.

“No,” she whispers with a suggestive smile and a wink. She trails her fingertips lightly over his chest as she moves to walk away, leaving Eist confused and infatuated.

  
  
  
  
  


— **3** —

The Lioness of Cintra hosts a grand feast later that week. Eist asks her to dance.

Calanthe looks at him intensely. _You made a promise, Eist_ , she says with a lifted eyebrow and a warning smile.

“Only a dance, Your Majesty,” he assures her.

She lifts her skirts, rounds the table, takes his hand, all the while keeping her gaze directly on him. “Only a dance?” she questions.

Eist nods.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Is that a threat?” he asks as he leads her onto the dance floor.

“Maybe.”

“I hope you’ll at least indulge some pleasant conversation.”

“I will. But don’t push it.”

“Unless you’d rather all aspects of our relationship be purely physical.”

Calanthe smiles in genuine amusement. “I assure you, I don’t mind talking. But if you’re saying you mind _physical_ activities, then I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.”

“Would I have asked you to dance if I minded physical activities?”

“You know very well I didn’t mean just dancing.”

“No? Then what else did you mean?” asks Eist with a smirk, knowing full well what she meant but delighting in making her say it.

“I think you know exactly what.”

He prompts her to continue with a raised eyebrow, and spins her around. When her eyes meet his again, he’s caught off guard by the pure lust in her gaze, the way her eyes wordlessly scream, ‘fuck me.’

“The kind of physical activities that don’t involve so many layers of clothing,” she whispers in his ear.

Barely keeping up with the timing of the dance, he spins her around again. When they make eye contact again, her expression is as composed as ever.

“You don’t mind those, do you?” she asks innocently.

Eist swallows. “Not at all, Majesty. Quite the opposite.”

Calanthe smiles wickedly. “Good.”

“Although I’m afraid any non-dancing activities will have to wait for another time,” he adds, regaining his composure, “as I promised this was only a dance, and I intend to keep my promises.”

“I don’t recall you making that promise.”

“Perhaps not a promise. But I intend to keep my word all the same.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I did say I would hold you to it.” From her tone, he gathers that she is pleased.

“What one says and the words that escape one’s lips—” Eist spins her around again, somewhat absentmindedly—“are not necessarily the same.”

An unreadable smile grows on her face. “True,” she says. A moment’s hesitation. “You’re growing bored.”

“Of your company? Never.”

“Of the party.”

“Forgive me. Your radiance and personality make all else seem dull.”

“Flattery will get you many places, Tuirseach.”

“Oh really? Like where?”

“Out of this room, for a start.”

“Are you kicking me out?” Eist jokes. “If so, I’m deeply sorry to have offended you.”

“Trust me, if I was kicking you out, I’d be causing a scene. And if you’d offended me …” Her smile widens. “Well. You’d be lucky to live long enough to be sorry.”

“Is this how you became so powerful? By threatening to murder all your allies should they offend you?” he teases.

Calanthe keeps her laughter silent, but he feels it in her body pressed close against his. “No, only the ones I like. The others don’t get the courtesy of a threat. But you needn’t worry much. Like I said, flattery will get you anywhere in this castle.”

“Anywhere?”

Calanthe nods.

“And what if I’m exactly where I want to be?”

She all but rolls her eyes. “I know you’re anxious to leave, Eist.”

“The only place I want to be right now is wherever you are,” he murmurs into her ear.

Her eyes widen; her pupils dilate; her gaze intensifies. “And if I told you flattery could get you out of this room, with me?”

“You won’t be missed?”

“Not for a while.”

“Then I will happily go wherever you lead me, my beautiful Calanthe.”

She spins out of his arms, returns to stand behind her place at the table and takes a drink from her goblet, whispers something to a passing servant, and exits through a door Eist hadn’t even noticed was there. He follows. The door leads to a dim passageway with a sharp turn a few feet in; as soon as he rounds the corner, Calanthe’s hands are curled around the fabric of his coat, her lips are pressed against his, and her body is pinning him to the wall with a force that would be surprising were she not the Lioness of Cintra. 

“Wait.”

She tilts her head to the side, looking at him impatiently.

“I promised not to pursue you further.”

Calanthe shakes her head. “Forget that. Promise me something else.”

“Anything,” he says, probably against his better judgement.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything,” he confirms, definitely against his better judgement.

Amusement dances on her face. “You’re a fool, Eist.”

“Perhaps. But I should like to be your fool.”

She kisses him, smiles into his lips. When she draws back, her face turns serious again. “Promise that you’re my fool, then. Promise you won’t let anyone else make a fool of you.”

“Will you promise me something in return?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Promise I’m your only fool. Promise you won’t take another man.”

“You’re proposing.”

“No. Merely requesting that should you desire another husband, you think of me first.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable,” she says, a flicker of lightheartedness re-emerging in her voice. She rests a hand over his heart, gazes deep into his eyes. “I promise.”

He covers her hand with his own. “Then I promise I’m yours.”

This time, when she leans in to kiss him, he kisses back with everything he has. She sighs desperate sounds into his mouth; his arms curl around her waist, pulling her closer. She slides her hand into his hair, uses it to control the tilt of his head until she finds an angle that makes them both moan.

Tugging him in by his shirt, she spins them around so it’s her pressed up against the wall. Yet she’s still in control—she guides one of his hands upwards to her breast with a certainty in her grip that makes him nearly lose his balance, and he has to reach out to brace himself against the wall with his other hand.

They stay there, panting and moaning into each other’s mouths, until she brings her hands to his chest and starts unfastening the top buttons of his doublet; then, taking advantage of the inch of space that opens up when he backs away just enough to give her hands room to move downward, she hooks two fingers into the space between the next two buttons and gives a sharp tug as she slips out from between him and the wall. The thread snaps and the button goes flying, the sound of it clattering on the ground muted by the fabric covering it and the faint din of the party. Calanthe does not try to grab a hold of him again, knowing that the one gesture and the burning, burning look she gives him are enough for him to follow her, of his own free will, wherever she takes him.

She could be leading him to the dungeon, about to lock him in a cell, and he would still follow her. A thrill runs through her body at the thought, but she ignores it in favor of her original plan. The bedchamber will do for now.

His footsteps are close behind her every step of the way.

She slams the door behind them when they reach her bedchamber, pushes him up against it, and after pressing a lingering, hot kiss to the edge of his mouth, turns on her heel and goes to sit on the edge of the bed. Fixing him with a seductive gaze, she slowly drags the fabric of her skirts up her leg. Her lips curve into a smile at the increasingly wild look in his eyes as he approaches her.

“Don’t you know you should kneel before a queen?” she purrs.

He does so without hesitation. “Your Majesty,” he says hoarsely. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

If she wasn’t aroused before… gods, she is now. “Fuck,” she breathes softly.

Eist reaches out to push her skirts further up on her hips. She spreads her legs in invitation. She’s wet.

He takes a moment to enjoy the sight. Then rests her legs on his shoulders and dives in.

She’s warm and wet on his tongue, and he wonders if this is how the food of the gods tastes. The scent of her is overwhelming, intoxicating. She adjusts the angle of one leg to open herself wider to him and digs her heel into his back; her other thigh presses down hard on his shoulder. Her fingers are threaded through his hair, her hand a commanding presence at the back of his head, pressing so hard he thinks her ring might leave an indentation on his scalp. The only sounds are her moans and the rustling of her skirts as she arches her back and grasps at the fabric with her free hand.

All of his senses are consumed by her, and it’s more arousing than anything he could imagine.

She comes with a cry. He slows down, but keeps gently working his mouth until she releases her death grip, lets her legs fall to the side. She sits up slightly so she’s leaning on her elbow, smirks, takes a moment to behold the sight of Eist on his knees at the foot of her bed, face dripping from eating her out, then stands up, pulling him up with her by his tunic and capturing his lips with hers.

With considerable force, she spins them around and pushes him onto the bed, barely giving him time to move backwards before climbing on top of him.

Immediately, she begins pulling at his clothes near where the evidence of his arousal strains against the fabric. He groans as her hand brushes against him through the material.

Once he’s freed of the confines of his clothing, she strokes him once—delicious direct contact—and, without further preamble, settles herself over him and sinks down on him, taking him in all at once.

After a moment, she begins to move, and all he can do is moan, rest his hands on her hips, chant her name over and over.

“Touch me,” she commands.

He brings his fingertips to where they are joined, rubs where she directs him. Eyes rolling back into her head, she increases her pace with a low, hoarse “ _fuck_.”

“Calanthe,” he says, utterly wrecked, “I—I’m—I can’t hold on…”

“I know.” She slams herself down onto him harder with every roll of her hips. A low moan escapes her, followed by a cry of his name as she comes, bringing him over the edge with her.

It’s over too soon, but gods, it was exactly what Calanthe wanted. Besides, they don’t have all the time in the world. As host, she is expected to be present at least for most of the party.

Once she’s caught her breath, she rolls off of him, reaches over to grab a (very conveniently placed) cloth which she uses to clean them off and tosses over to the side. With a sigh, she collapses down on the bed beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

Turning to face him, she smiles.

He smiles back. “Marry me,” he says.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that. But no.” There is no playfulness in her tone, but there is no anger either, and she makes no move to extract herself from his arms.

  
  
  
  
  


— **4** —

Eist doesn’t propose again for a number of months. When he does, it is in a letter.

_My dear Calanthe,_

_It has been far too long since I have been in Cintra. Though I have tried to find an opportunity to visit, responsibilities have kept me on the Isles or out at sea._

_I wish you would take a friendly diplomatic trip to Skellige. I understand your duties as Queen bind you to Cintra, and I cannot say my motivations for inviting you are not entirely selfish, but I believe it would do good. The alliance between Cintra and Skellige has, for decades, been built on military strategy and serious business meetings, and I daresay it could use some lighthearted bonding between the parties involved. Plus, your duties as Queen are undoubtedly a source of tension for you—not that one would ever be able to tell—and the sight of the sea, even from land, has a very calming effect, which I believe would help ease the weight you carry (as should I, if you will allow me into your bed)._

_I also wish you would reconsider my proposal. I realize it is unlikely that you will, having denied me three times, but your company—in and out of the bedchamber—is most enjoyable, and I find myself longing for you most days and nights._

_I hope to see you soon._

_Yours,  
_ _Eist Tuirseach_

Calanthe smiles to herself as she reads it over several times, tucks the letter into a drawer of her desk to look back at on lonely nights, and writes a response to send with a formal invitation to Pavetta’s betrothal banquet.

_My noble Sir Tuirseach,_

_Your invitation is certainly an appealing one. I’d question your motives, but you’ve already made them very clear, so I’ll settle for questioning your reasoning. I don’t know what kind of bonding you had in mind, but I assure you, we’ll do just as much when you and your nephews pay a friendly diplomatic visit to Cintra for Pavetta’s upcoming betrothal feast, and it’ll be no less effective. As for this tension you claim I have, I won’t deny it—ruling a kingdom is not something to be taken lightly—but you should take care not to imply I’m not fully capable of handling it as well as is possible for anyone to handle. I’ll forgive it from you, but only because you’re my fool. You’re not wrong about the calming effects of the shore, but you forget that Cintra has a coastline as well, one much closer to the castle, and one I would have to visit anyway in order to travel to Skellige._

_If you mean to say you’ll ease the weight I carry by taking some of it on yourself if I allow you into my marriage bed, make you king, then no, Eist, once again, I will not marry you._

_My own reservations about marriage aside, you have a reputation as a man of the sea—word has it you are fervently opposed to laying down roots anywhere. You are married, in a sense, to the sea; you owe much of your greatness and skill as a naval commander to that fact. Apparently, you have had a change of heart that has brought forth in you a dedicated resolve to marry one specific woman._

_But as endearing as I find that resolve, and as honored as I am to be that woman, I cannot take you away from the sea. As king, your duties and responsibilities would bind you to Cintra for most of your days, and I could not force that upon you by accepting your proposal, not when your passion lies at sea and doing so would keep you away from that._

_However, I do very much enjoy your company, both in and out of the bedchamber, and I look forward to the next time we meet._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Queen Calanthe  
_ _Lioness of Cintra_

  
  
  
  
  


— **5** —

A ship from Skellige arrives in Cintra’s harbor at dawn the day of Pavetta’s banquet. The islanders reach the city soon after. Queen Calanthe greets them at the castle entrance, invites the honored guests to get settled in their guest chambers.

Later that morning, she knocks on Eist’s door. He greets her with a smile and a bow, takes her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles. A faint blush appears on her cheeks as she asks him to accompany her on a walk through the gardens.

He takes her arm. She leads the way.

The question slips out as they’re walking through a secluded area of the gardens, colorful flowers blooming all around them. Even surrounded by the most beautiful flowers on the Continent, Eist can only look at Calanthe.

“Marry me?”

“I told you, Eist, I would never want to tear you away from the sea and force you into the life of a king’s duties and responsibilities. Boredom would make you a dull man.”

He looks into her eyes seriously. “For you, Calanthe … I’d swear never to sail again if it meant I could be by your side.”

Calanthe’s eyes burn. She holds back her tears, pours all her emotion instead into kissing him. “Promise me you’ll never make that oath,” she says when she pulls back. “You’d go insane if you had to stay on land all the time. I wouldn’t be able to put up with you.”

“Promise I won’t have to.”

Laughter plays across her lips. She presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You won’t have to,” she says with a softness he hasn’t seen in her before.

“Then I won’t.”

  
  
  
  
  


— **+1** —

When the Force hits her, the first thing Calanthe feels is shock. Her reflexes tell her to hold onto the throne.

The throne splinters.

Then she feels pain. But the Lioness of Cintra is no stranger to pain. Pain, she can handle. It is the feeling of helplessness that scares her, the feeling of helplessness that comes with lying motionless on the ground among fragments of a shattered symbol of her power.

For a split second, the feeling of a body above hers fuels the terrifying helplessness. She can win a hundred battles, kill a thousand men, build a reputation as a fearsome warrior, but that cannot change the fact that she is a woman, and when she is lying on the ground with pieces of her throne scattered around her, and there is a man on top of her, she is utterly powerless.

She forces her eyes open, and recognizes the man above her.

Eist.

The whirlwind blows relentlessly, pieces of rubble flying around the room—and Calanthe barely feels the rush of air, does not feel any crumbling bits hitting her body aside from the fragments of throne already pressing into her back, only feels the warmth of Eist’s body. Shielding her. Protecting her.

In another situation, she’d think angrily that she doesn’t need protection, she can fend for herself, but she knows when it’s time to stop moving. Damn her pride, she knows that she can’t protect herself right now. Right now, she’s grateful to have Eist as her shield.

Through the roar of the magical winds, she hears Eist murmuring in her ear.

“My queen… Calanthe… my Calanthe… are you alright?”

All she manages is a groan.

With all the crashing noises around them, she barely makes out what he says next.

“I love you.” He presses a kiss to her jaw. “I love you.” Another kiss. “My Calanthe—” a kiss to her cheek—“I will love you—” a kiss to her closed eyelid—“if your throne room—” his lips trail across the space between her eyes—“is destroyed—” a kiss to her other eyelid— “if this starts a war—” a kiss to her forehead—“if your whole castle falls—” a kiss to her nose—“I will love you.” A kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I love you.” He continues to leave kisses all over her face.

She’s dimly aware of the chaos coming to a halt.

“Eist,” she manages, barely a whisper.

“Calanthe.” He kisses her fully on the lips. “My beloved.” Again. “My Calanthe!”

“Eist. People are watching.”

“Let them watch.”

When Eist finally ceases his relentless kisses, she rises, supported by his arm. Eyes meeting her guards’, she points at Lord Urcheon.

The guards, however, back away. Urcheon’s form shifts until in place of the hedgehog stands a man.

“What…” says Eist, bewildered. “Who’s that? Urcheon?”

“Duny,” Pavetta smiles.

Unable to bear looking at the disaster of a scene her throne room has become, Calanthe turns her face away.

“Cursed?” Eist mutters. “But how—”

“Midnight has struck. Just this minute. The bell we heard before was early,” the witcher explains. “The bell-ringer’s mistake. Am I right, Calanthe?”

“Right, right,” Duny answers for her, “but maybe instead of standing there talking, someone could help me with this armor and call a doctor. That madman Rainfarn stabbed me under the ribs.”

Mousesack draws his wand. “What do we need a doctor for?”

“Enough,” calls Calanthe, raising her voice back to the commanding tone of a queen. “Enough of this. When all this is over, I want to see you in my chamber. All of you, as you stand. Eist, Pavetta, Mousesack, Geralt, and you… Duny.”

At Calanthe’s command, Eist, Pavetta, Mousesack, Geralt, and Duny meet her in her chamber when the tumult of the feast finally dies down. Duny goes on about the curse, about how he ended up in just the right circumstances to claim Pavetta as his child surprise; Pavetta shyly admits how long she and Duny have been seeing each other—

“There. You little sorceress. Right under my nose!” hisses Calanthe. “Let me just find out who let him into the castle at night! Let me at the ladies-in-waiting you went gathering primroses with. Primroses, damnit! Well, what am I to do with you now?”

“Calanthe—” begins Eist, intending to try to calm her down, intending to propose an arrangement that satisfies both Pavetta’s desire to marry the man she loves and Calanthe’s desire for an alliance and a new king of Cintra she trusts. Intending to propose.

“Hold on, Tuirseach,” she cuts him off. “I haven’t finished yet. Duny, the matter’s become very complicated. You’ve been with Pavetta for a year now, and what? And nothing. So you negotiated the oath from the wrong father. Destiny has made a fool of you. What irony, as Geralt of Rivia, present here, is wont to say.”

“To hell with destiny, oaths, and irony. I love Pavetta and she loves me; that’s all that counts. You can’t stand in the way of our happiness.”

“I can, Duny, I can, and how.” The corners of Calanthe’s lips turn upwards. “You’re lucky I don’t want to. I have a certain debt toward you, Duny. I’d made up my mind… I ought to ask your forgiveness, but I hate doing that. So I’m giving you Pavetta and we’ll be quits. Pavetta? You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

Pavetta shakes her head, a brilliant smile breaking out on her face.

“Thank you, your Majesty. Thank you. You’re a wise and generous queen.”

“Of course I am. And beautiful.”

“And beautiful.”

“You can both stay in Cintra if you wish. The people here are less superstitious than the inhabitants of Maecht and adjust to things quicker. Besides, even as Urcheon you were quite pleasant. But you can’t count on having the throne just yet. I intend to reign a little longer beside the new king of Cintra.” Calanthe smiles, casting a glance at Eist through the corner of her eye. “The noble Eist Tuirseach of Skellige has made me a very interesting proposition,” she says as if his proposal was a recent development, as if he hasn’t asked five times. Her eyes twinkle with laughter as they meet his.

“Calanthe—” Eist begins to speak again, voice growing desperate.

“Yes, Eist, I accept,” says Calanthe, answering his question before he asks it. She smiles at him with open adoration. “I’ve never before listened to a confession of love while lying on the floor amidst fragments of my own throne but… how did you put it, Duny? This is all that counts and I don’t advise anyone to stand in the way of my happiness.”

For a few wonderful moments, everything is perfect.

Until it’s not.

Pavetta is pregnant.

Calanthe inhales. Smiles tightly, trying to retain her composure. “Pavetta,” she says, as gently as she can, “go to bed. Get some rest. Duny,” her efforts to keep any anger and frustration out of her voice cease entirely, “go to your own rooms. I’ll deal with you two in the morning. Later in the morning,” she amends with a sigh. “And you, Witcher. Leave Cintra, and never return. Mousesack, see him out of the gates.”

Pavetta, Duny, Mousesack, and Geralt all begin making their way to the exit. “Eist...” Calanthe says, finally addressing the islander, “lock the door.”

“From the inside, you idiot,” she adds when Eist tries to follow the others out of the queen’s chamber. He quickly corrects his mistake. Her face softens. “My idiot.”

“My Calanthe,” he says, reverently and lovingly. He walks towards her, tentatively at first, then more surely when she gives him a warm smile. The open display of affection is so unlike what he’s used to from Calanthe, and his heartbeat stutters at the thought that she is willing to share this side of her, this side which she usually keeps hidden, with him.

She falls into his embrace, caresses his face as she gently kisses his lips. “I love you,” she mutters.

“I love you too, my beautiful Calanthe.”

She kisses him again, deepens it as she wraps her arms around his neck, lets her tongue slide into his mouth, moans into the sensation of his tongue against hers. His hands run up and down her back as his breathing grows heavy, and her whole body flushes with warmth. Tangling her hands in his hair, she steps blindly backwards to try and get to the bed. A moan escapes her lips when her back collides with one of the bedposts. He moves his hands from her back to begin gently stroking her sides, drawing out a moan; he tears his lips away from hers to begin kissing her neck, causing her to drop her head to the side and breathe out his name heavily, voice thick with lust. One of his hands trails lightly over the side of her breast. The hitch in her breath prompts him to apply a firmer touch, stroke his thumb across her nipple. His other hand settles on her hip. She cries out, slides one hand from his hair to cup his face, runs her thumb along his cheekbone.

“Eist… _gods_.”

He removes his mouth from its position licking and sucking at the skin near her collarbone to smirk up at her. She meets his gaze, and despite having some prior experience in the area, he’s unprepared for the intensity that is Calanthe when she’s aroused.

Somehow, suddenly, he’s lying on the bed, and Calanthe is above him, lips devouring his, trapping him underneath her full body weight with no intention of letting him go.

He wraps his arms around her tightly. He has no intention of letting her go, either.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! i love you
> 
> i appreciate comments very much, especially since i am new to writing smut and do not entirely know what i am doing (with writing smut and also in general)


End file.
